Fragments Gallery
Misty Morn
I wait silently as thick soupy fog rolls across the forest below. The view from my vantage point high above the forest treetops is breathtaking but I am not here to see the sights. I am not perched atop a narrow outcrop of stone overlooking the valley on a whim. I am keeping watch upon that winding path leading through the valley; keeping watch for the man whom I know will follow the trail. Soon I will get my chance.
So I sit up here in the cold, my heavy cloak wrapped tightly around myself for warmth, waiting for him to appear. I run my hands along the graceful curve of the bow I have slung across my shoulder. I have always found the texture of the wood comforting.
Before me the mists gently drift across the valley. Some areas grow sharper while others become less distinct as the fog shifts. I try my best to ignore the fantastic shapes formed by the restless mist and instead concentrate on the path.
The quiver on my back creaks slightly as I move. The sound gently breaks the silence. I still my restlessness with a quick thought. Soon this would be done and if done right this portion of my life would be over. If done wrong my own life would be over. I will not fail however. Too much is riding upon this.
On that trail far below movement catches my eye. A pennant bearing horseman emerges from the trees. His horse is keeping a steady pace as he plows forward through the fog. The man's burnished armour gleams in the morning light and the banner in his hand flaps merrily in the breeze. On that banner rides a black owl standing on a red field, its colour is vibrant enough to be clearly visible through the fog.
Another pair of riders emerge from the forest on the heels of the first, each one of the pair leading a line horsemen. They are the honour guard.
They are a striking sight. Each rider holds an upright lance of elaborate steelworks and from the tips of each hung a red ribbon. These men would seem more in place at a military parade than out here in the wild. Their demeanour suggested so as well. They were relaxed and brazen; their stance held no hint of concern for their surroundings.
A short distance down the line came a break in the formation. Instead of a pair of soldiers a single mounted guard, probably the captain, led a covered and curtained carriage drawn by four pure white stallions. As I watched the curtains shifted as though they had been brushed by a stray hand.
My target is in there, of that I am sure.
Behind the carriage trails another twin stream of soldiers but I barely have eyes for them. Instead I remain focused on that carriage; I can feel that old hatred coming to life in me once more. The man inside... He must pay for what he has done to me.
This I swear.